lanselos_du_lac | Recent Entries

The immediate aftermath of Arthur's visit is largely as Lancelot had expected -- both better and worse than the year before. Even if it's what he had anticipated, that doesn't make it any less unsettling; he feels no less unmoored than he had the last time. But this time, instead of fully retreating, he returns to the room he shares with Susan, and he lets her comfort him, keep him close. She doesn't ask many questions -- she does hover a bit more than is usual for her -- but he tells her the whole story, including most of the details. He feels a little better, after that.

Lancelot does not regret any of the choices he made with Arthur; he hopes Arthur manages the same. He is not at all certain that that's possible, but he can stay a little hopeful. After all, Arthur managed to find his way back once. He may well do it again in another year or five.

He sleeps fitfully, that night, and in the morning he does not go out to do his usual routine of drills and horses, but instead stays in their rooms until Susan leaves to go tend to her own business. Then, he goes down to his old rooms to retrieve the letters Arthur brought with him. He sits staring at them for a long while before he feels brave enough to read them. He starts with the letter from Bors; his heart twists on reading the details of what has happened to his cousin. Lancelot wishes, desperately, that he could talk with Bors himself. He hates that they should have this in common, too.

Then he reads Guinever's letter. It has the strange effect of simultaneously making him feel both hurt and wildly angry. He lets himself feel both for the space of a few breaths. Then it's as if something slams shut within him. He feels blank. He feels just as he did before he left court.

He takes both letters and leaves them in the rooms he shares with Susan, on her writing desk, with a little note that she may read them. The note also says that he plans to stay tonight in his old room, alone, but that he will return in the morning before his usual time for drills. Then he goes down to the armory and spends the next several hours in silence, oiling and sharpening blades, thinking of nothing, feeling the sorrow and anger just behind the dam of careful control.

By the following day, he is back to portions of his routine. He does not go out to do drills, but he does tend to the horses. He takes himself on a long walk through the woods, alone. He can be found in some of his usual places, and although he is not exactly putting off welcoming "let's chat" vibes, he will indeed stop to speak, at least a little, with anyone who wishes.

The day is warm and bright -- it's lovely, in fact -- and so Lancelot is doing his best to ignore the strange tension that has been dogging him over the last few days. He is, of course, keeping to his usual routine, which helps, and now he is in the little clearing where he and Magnus meet for training. He's waiting for Magnus to arrive, checking the straps of Arthur's shield while he waits, and doing his best to clear his head and focus up on what he has determined they need to focus on today.

It's been a long while since Lancelot felt this way: angry and adrift, too overwhelmed and in his own head to determine how best to manage it. (If Susan were here, it would be simple -- but the fact that his Susan is gone is part of the problem.) His anger is a hot stone at his center, a roiling mess, a weapon without a target. He still feels that he would like to smash something, start a fight, find some way to externalize everything all the things he could not bring himself to say to the Galahad who is far older than he ought to be, the quiet king of a quiet kingdom.

A fulfilled purpose. A completed quest. A long chain of manipulation and events that dragged Lancelot along in its wake, and that (in this other time, he has to acknowledge, not his time and not now) led only to the ruin of everything Lancelot had cared for. And for what? It makes him furious to think that the price of the Grail was Galahad's joy, Galahad's self, and that that price was somehow being paid long before Galahad was even born.

That's just the start of it; there is more, much more, and it feels like it will keep spooling out without ceasing.

His impulse, as ever, is to stalk off to his room and stay there until he feels he can manage himself. (He thinks, not for the first time, of himself ten years older and outwardly angry, angry enough that everyone sees it, fears him or dreads his company. A man who lashes out. He does not want that future, but this possibility has always been somewhere just under the surface; he's always known it. Sometimes it has worked for him, with him, but he knows that it is dangerous and there is no one in this place that he would want to bear witness to it.) If this were Camelot, that is what he would do.

Since he can't figure what to do, he settles for a middle ground. It's been a long while since he felt like getting very deliberately drunk, but that appeals just now, and so he heads for one of the smaller bars, just off the main corridor.

^{[Note: All are welcome! Those who care for Lancelot and/or those who also wish to fistfight God are particularly welcome.]}

Since they learned of Shen Yuan's death, things have been subdued; rightly so, Lancelot reasons. He has done what he can to be a support for those he loves, and to keep his own worry and anxiety at bay. He worries about how they are all doing, about whether or not they are safe, about what he can do to make anything better -- which often feels like nothing. It's unsettling, and he wants to stay settled and present for them, so he determines to find a way to be so.

As has always been the case for him, being outside helps. The weather is warming and true spring is settling in. (He has difficulty keeping track of what time may be like back in Britain¹, but he suspects that it is early summer there. If so, then he supposes that means he is another year older, which is a strangely hopeful thought.) And so, after his lunch with Susan, he heads back out -- he might ride, or walk through the woods, or explore the lake. Whatever keeps him out in the sunshine, under the sky.

^{1: He has not quite realized this yet, but he has generally stopped thinking "at home" when he means Camelot, or Britain in general. That this place -- no, these people -- have become home in so short a span is something he has to take by degrees, lest he worry about what it means for his relationship with those he left behind there.}

In the few days since Dark ended, even Lancelot has noticed himself feeling easier. He had not thought himself much affected by Dark, aside from his concern for Susan and those he cares about who were facing their own struggles during the month; it's something of a surprise to find that his relief is also deep-set, for himself. There is a strange kind of hope that he doesn't recall feeling before, in anticipation of spring. He realizes that the pace will change, and that he is looking forward to spring and summer in this new place.

He's been considering whether he should move some of his things back to his own room. He has not stayed the night there since Susan asked him to stay with her during Dark, and he is happy to admit that this arrangement has been deeply pleasant. Lancelot has never experienced something so ... domestic as this. (He so rarely was able to wake up next to Guinever, that the first few times he woke up next to Susan after they began seeing each other, it felt like a very deep intimacy.) He doesn't, however, want to presume anything -- he knows Susan has appreciated having him close, he knows their relationship has grown deeper, but he isn't sure whether she wants him to stay with her at night on a more permanent basis. He suspects she might want her own space back, once she's recovered her equilibrium.

As ever, he has maintained his routine. He has also seen the invitation to Dionysus' party. It's this that was on his mind as he set out for the training yard this morning -- it was brisk and cold, but not so much the punishing cold of deep Dark -- and this he let himself idly consider while making his way through drills. (Thinking about it during drilling helps, because thinking about it otherwise has made him feel anxious -- he will never know what he ought to wear, or what to expect.)

By the time he has finished, he knows that there are several subjects that he needs to discuss with Susan when they meet for lunch.

Once Lancelot has left Magnus and Galahad in the greenhouse, he goes looking for Laertes. He can admit he has had the urge to check in on everyone, in the wake of Magnus' incident, but he has realized that it's been some days and he misses Laertes' company.

So he goes seeking, checking in on the places he thinks Laertes might be, and eventually finding him in that same parlor they'd sat together in before. Lancelot pauses in the doorway, and then clears his throat and says, "I do hope I'm not interrupting."

Despite the clear fact that he intends to interrupt. He is grinning.

It's a couple of days before Lancelot is feeling well enough, and before Susan is willing to let him out of her sight. He is still tired -- the incident with Magnus was surprisingly taxing, given the chill and the fever -- and he looks it.

He is dressed in a pair of jeans and a sweater, and he convinces Susan that he's feeling well enough, he needs to check on Magnus. In truth, he still feels on the mend, but giving into the urge to keep sleeping for another day or two would feel wrong.

So he ventures out, first to get coffee and then to seek Magnus. He decides to forego drills today, as he doesn't suppose he has the strength. He isn't entirely sure where to find Magnus, but he heads instinctively for the greenhouse, since that's where he left him. (Lancelot knows he might well find him elsewhere, but this is a good starting point.)

By the time he feels he's done all he can for Magnus, Lancelot is the kind of wired that feels more wrung out, adrift and spread thin. He is cold -- this should be obvious, outdoors in this weather with no shirt or cloak -- and it feels like it's coming for the very center of him, which is probably accurate. The dagger in his boot is rubbing the wrong way so he pauses to remove it, and then points himself at the mansion and makes himself walk as quickly as he can.

He isn't thinking. For the most part, since he found Magnus in a pool of his own blood this morning, he has not thought of anything except what was right in front of him. He has no idea what time it is, or how long it's been since that moment. (He had forgotten, he supposes, what it can be like on the other side of what one cannot help recognize as a life-and-death situation, when you finally start to understand that the feeling of boundless energy is not real. But he puts that aside. He can't stop yet, so he refuses to feel any of that.)

It's warm as he comes in by the side door, but he doesn't let himself feel that either; he doesn't have much further to go. Before he's consciously aware that that's where he is heading, he is knocking on Susan's door.

It's been nearly two weeks since Lancelot spent an afternoon with Kade, trying on new types of clothes. It had been an enjoyable afternoon -- Kade is pleasant and kind, a good listener, and Lancelot likes him. He had taken some things back to his room that day, and a few days later he'd found several tailored items in a basket just outside his door.

Since then, he has had the new clothes in his closet or drawers next to his usual things. Each day he considers them, and then feels he can't bring himself to make a change and so he puts on his usual tunic and hose. It had been easy to dress differently for the dance; he had had Susan's help in selecting the suit, and it was a special occasion. With these newer items, he's uncertain. He doesn't know if he will feel like himself; he isn't sure how it will feel if someone whom he would like to be glad or impressed is instead disappointed or finds him ridiculous.

After a point, though, he begins to feel guilty that Kade put in work and effort only to have these things sit hidden away in Lancelot's room. So this morning, after he finishes with drills and showers, he pulls on the fitted jeans (which are a very dark indigo) and the t-shirt. He's not often chilly, but the leather jacket seemed to be part of the package, and so he puts that on as well.

He doesn't have a full-length mirror in his room, but he looks down at himself, recalls Kade's approving words, and decides that this will have to do. Lancelot takes a breath and then ventures out, heading toward the café for his late morning coffee.

He doesn't really mean to, but Lancelot keeps to his rooms for a time in the wake of the latest mansion upheaval. He doesn't disappear for days, and he mostly keeps his routines -- he does spend a little more time riding -- but he is subdued and not idly floating about for socializing.

It could have been worse. He knows this. He knows, too, that no one did this on purpose; he's grateful for Susan and Nightingale's understanding. But none of that makes it easier to regain his emotional balance. Much like that day (which felt very long), he is still grappling occasionally with that sensation of being... just outside of himself, a step removed, dizzy and longing to be even further away.

Still, he does not want to punish Susan and he knows they should talk. So this morning after he puts up Rivelin, he goes to find Susan, wherever she might be.

Lancelot feels that things have been a strange mix of tumult and routine. This is probably because they have. But today, so far, is routine in all respects. His day has proceeded apace through his usual steps -- drills, tending to Rivelin, coffee, lunch with Susan -- and the afternoon is now stretching out before him in a very satisfying way. He feels good, settled.

And so it is that he's in the café, reading (or mostly reading), with more coffee at hand. Given that he seems to be splitting time equally between having his eyes on his book and gazing out the window, he will not be bothered if anyone comes to chat.

Current Mood: relaxed

On the day of the snowfall, Lancelot finally decides. He leaves his sword hanging on the wall -- he doesn't know what a snow day is, but it's fine to take one. The snow will make his footing bad for drills, and it feels strange to run drills in the practice room. Still, he's up at his usual time of just before dawn, and bundled into his warm things. He takes the long way to the stables, the quiet of the mansion's lawn and surroundings at this hour enhanced by the muffling snow.

It is one of his mornings when things feel more difficult than usual; he needs to shake that off before lunchtime. (He does realize that these mornings are more likely when he and Susan don't share a bed. That's fine. It's all right.) Some mornings he wakes and he looks at his room -- cozier now, but still sometimes unfamiliar on first waking -- and he does not think that he can get out of bed. He feels he would rather stay. Close his eyes. See if he wakes up in his rooms at Camelot. See if he wakes up on the floor here, but with Arthur close by.

For the most part, he typically lets himself stay like that, heavy and hopeless, for five or ten minutes and then he forces himself up, to dress, to go run drills, to bathe, and so on. He has his mental checklist and knowing what he's supposed to do helps. Usually the sensation shakes off once he's sweating in the practice yard, and things are all right. He doubts anyone notices.

On those days, he often cannot bring himself to go to the stable. To see the bay, to see Arthur's tack still there. It stings -- more than stings, it feels like a gaping wound he can't staunch or close. He can tell himself, again and again, that he is glad Arthur was sent back. That Britain needs her High King more than Lancelot needs Arthur. That Guinever needs her husband, who loves her, and with whom surely now she is happy; they can be as they were meant to be. But still there is the part of him that finds it desperately, brutally unfair that he should wake that morning to find his ... to find Arthur gone, but all his damned gear and this steed still here. It would be easier, he thinks, without these keepsakes he did not ask for.

He's happy here, most of the time. He is happy with Susan. He is learning things about himself he would never have been able to back at court. He lets Grantaire teach him games and Laertes teach him how the kitchen works and now and then he does drink a little with Sagramore, and it all feels good. It's not that he's unhappy. That's life, he supposes, I was not perfectly happy at court, either. Even though he's alone with his thoughts, he gives that little shrug.

Sometimes when he wakes up heavy, it's because he has had a dream, usually of Camelot. Arthur and Gwen happy, which is always both reassuring and fills him with something like anger. (That's grief. He doesn't quite know it, but that is grief.) Arthur and Gwen sorrowing and falling to ruin because he is gone, and he should never have left them, he should have chosen Arthur and they would have gone home together. Very occasionally it's that he is both there and here and no one will speak to him, everyone turns away from him, even Arthur and Susan.

Well. What's to be done except what he's always done. Get up, go to, keep moving. By the time he reaches the stable he's mostly set aside that grey, empty, roaring feeling. Perhaps finally giving the bay gelding a name will make him feel he's accomplished something that's expected of him. That would be good.

Inside the stall, listening to Fenyes munching the oats he's just given her, he sets aside the bay's blanket and saddles him. He leads him out and they go riding. He doesn't put him into a canter today because of the snow, but he lets the horse have his head and do as he pleases for a little while. Eventually, as he turns them back toward the stable he says to the bay, in his wobbly Breton (he used to speak it very well, but it was largely the language of smallfolk, his father said, and discouraged him), "Cannot call you Lancelot the Horse. 'Tis charming, but no fit name, and will cause confusion. Cannot call you Arthur. Let's call you Rivelin¹. That will do, and does your coloring justice."

They ride back to the stable, and Lancelot spends a while putting tack away and brushing Rivelin before putting the blanket back in place. He says quietly, "I'll do better by you. I just needed time."

The sun is well up, now, and before long he will be looking for Susan in the café. He does feel better, he knows he looks better having shaken off the gloom. Everything will be well. He will need to find Sagramore to tell him about the name. He will make sure to tell Gideon, too, and she'll probably tease him. And of course he'll tell Susan, not least because she will ask why it looks as if he's spent all morning out in the cold.

He is smiling by the time he's going in the door and stamping the snow off his boots. It will be well, he knows. Get up, go to, keep moving.

^{1 - In this typist's first ever footnote, Rivelin is a Breton name "Derived from Breton ri "king" and belin "brilliant"."}

Current Mood: contemplative

The morning after Wanderers Gather, Lancelot actually permits himself to sleep a little late and to skip his morning drills. This is sensible, he reasons, because he did have rather more mulled wine last night than he intended -- not that he has regrets. It was a lovely night, and a joyous one, and if he were to have any regret it would be that he did not spend as much of it in Susan's company as he might have preferred. But he did socialize with more folk than he usually would; all in all, he is feeling rather good this morning even if he does have a little headache.

He eats his breakfast, as usual, and then takes a walk. It's cold, today, and last night's snow seems to have stuck, though there isn't as much of it as he might have expected. It makes him glad for the new rug in his room. He makes his way to the stable to look in on the gelding -- in spite of everything, he has not been able to bring himself to give the horse a name -- and ensure that both horses have blankets. (He knows, of course, that Sagramore is on top of this, but it feels good to check all the same.)

Eventually he heads back to the mansion in search of coffee. He leaves his cloak in his room and heads to the café, thinking idly about how he might spend the afternoon. Reading, perhaps, or perhaps he can find Susan before lunch and make some other plan.

Current Mood: content

Rather suddenly, after this latest mansion event or incursion of unexpected visitors, Lancelot will not be seen around and about as has come to be usual for him. He is not drilling in the field in the mornings. He is not in the café seeking pastries or companionship. He is not around the kitchens or libraries or, seemingly, anywhere.

Lancelot keeps to his room. If he bathes or shaves or uses the bathroom, he does so carefully and avoiding anyone he might meet. If Laertes leaves food outside his door, folk will find it still there later in the day. If anyone knocks, he will not call them in. He lets the mansion provision him with bread, cheese, water-- sometimes wine or whiskey -- but he doesn't much want any of it.

He cannot bring himself to speak to anyone. He cannot bring himself to do much of anything at all. The best concession he will make, with the understanding that there are those who will worry, is that he does not lock or bolt the door.

[Typist note: Anyone who might be really worried about Lancelot's sudden disappearance or withdrawal is welcome! Post is "semi-closed" really only because a character would have to deliberately decide to enter, and no one will stumble across Lancelot by accident.]

Current Mood: crushed

Lancelot is in a very good mood indeed. He feels settled, assured. He feels as he did, he thinks, back when he first found his feet at court -- he is someplace he belongs, he can be assured that people will treat him with respect, if not kindness or welcoming. He lets himself revel in it, a little, as it's been a long while since he felt anywhere near as nice as this.

The weather is good: sunny, crisp, the familiar feeling of autumn as winter is hovering close by. He goes to his own room and fetches his sword. He runs his usual drills, though with a kind of ease and almost carelessness he hasn't had since he was young. (Perhaps he is young enough, still. He can't be sure. He has already lived past the age his father was when he died, but that means almost nothing. His father died in battle and Lancelot is, now, no longer likely to ever see such a fate.)

Afterwards, he showers and decides he might as well find breakfast. So he's now heading toward one of the kitchens, looking cheerful for once.

Current Mood: optimistic

( You're about to view content that the journal owner has advised should be viewed with discretion. )

Current Mood: hopeful

It's been an exhausting few days. While the zombie siege was dangerous, Lancelot is proud of how they handled things, together -- even though not everyone is friends. He was also, he must admit, grateful for the diversion. There is too much on his mind, after the truth-telling spell, and most of it sits like a stone in him... making his sleep even worse, weighing on his heart.

Still, all of that is strangely intermixed with hope. He has a few new friendships that feel like how he remembers friendship feeling -- pleasure in each other's company, time well spent, connection. There's a little piece of him that feels as if he gave that up with youth. (He was always glad to be in Arthur's company, or Guinevere's, he misses them in a way that's sometimes physically painful now that they're away from him. But all of that feels shored up by duty, devotion, love -- nothing simple.) He is glad he could speak plainly with Galahad, glad for all of these new possibilities. Glad of Susan, Laertes, Grantaire -- even Sagramore, whom only months ago he would have given little notice.

So he's reverted to keeping to himself, a little, while he thinks things through. He keeps his schedule: sleep (or not sleeping), drills in the morning, finding something to eat after that, wandering the mansion or the grounds. He's not as adrift as he was, and he is sober most of the time now, but it's an adjustment.

This afternoon he's determined that it's been too long since he took proper care of his sword. He's found a bench and has set himself up there to clean, hone, and oil the blade.

Current Mood: calm

Lancelot has never been good at "making friends." As a boy, he trained diligently and every day was in service of eventual knighthood. What friends he had were those he'd known all his life, his cousins and kinfolk. They were just there, he just knew them as they knew him. He never gave it any kind of thought.

When he finally left his father's holdings and traveled to court, he found that either those he met were right away enamored of him, impressed by him, or they disliked him -- and if they disliked him, he simply paid them no attention at all. He has always been one to be either struck in a heartbeat by love and wonder that immediately became devotion (Guinevere, Arthur) or to accept camaraderie from those sworn to the same service and find that to be more than enough. Other knights treated him with deference, which suited him.

He has never been sure when it started that even a small flash of anger would kindle him instantly to something like rage; when it became usual for him to lash out against a man if not granted the deference he expected, or if he felt offence. He has felt that part of himself like a bare nerve, an almost physical sensation, more and more of late -- infinitely worse since Corbenic. One wrong word and the anger springs like a trap, cutting off any thought or reason, and sometimes afterwards he cannot even recall what sprung it.

He had confessed the matter with Lady Elaine to the Queen the same day he had returned; they were alone, closeted together, and as he began speaking he felt ice and fire at once, all over his skin. At first she wept, which he supposes he expected, but when he moved to comfort her she rounded on him. They had quarreled before, sometimes rather hotly, but it had never been like this. He hadn't been aware Guinevere could raise her voice at him that way, could be so cutting, and at first he tried to argue back, to explain, to beg forgiveness, but there was no use in any of that. He remembers she ordered him out of her sight and he remembers going, but he remembers nothing of that evening or the next handful of days, except that he was told he returned to her door at the turning of each of the hours only to have a lady send him away again.

The Queen and her ladies rode out without him, he knows not how many times or for how long, and it became clear to him that she would not ask him back. The King tried to speak with him and Lancelot stood, nodded, bowed, responded respectfully -- he remembers little of this, too. He began to make arrangements to go questing and he knows the story he gave was not convincing. He does remember that he asked their leave to go while Arthur held court, he remembers kneeling and everyone looking on. He remembers that Arthur's expression was pained and that Guinevere would not look at him. He doesn't know whether he looked composed, but it's likely he did (he figures now) because he could feel nothing at all but a kind of searing emptiness.

Now, in this new place, he still often feels nothing. Or rather, he waits until some feeling or sensation makes itself known and then he tries to sort it out. He spends many hours alone in his room, which is still bare but which suits him that way. He is sorry, very much so, for how he treated Galahad. He is sorry that those first few days he was just as quick to anger as he had been in Britain. When his mind won't quiet, which is most of the time, he goes looking for drink. He considers what Sagramore has said to him; he considers Laertes. Folk here seem content to be here, as if this is a new opportunity and not a purgatory.

Sagramore had suggested he make friends. He doesn't much know how to do that. But the more he considers it, the more it seems that he could determine this place to be freedom rather than a trap. It doesn't remove anything that's hurt him. It doesn't dissolve his love for the Queen or the King. But for the first time in a very long time he doesn't feel as if he's struggling constantly, hopelessly, with only grief and rage and longing to be gained from it. Susan's lesson suggests that there are other ways of making sense that do not involve making war (against himself, against his shame, against anyone). Perhaps that's so.

Lancelot thinks: Well, if at court they believe me to be dead, perhaps I am dead. If I am not a knight of the court, then I know not who I am. If I am not a blade, then perhaps I might be-- what?

He cannot say. But here there is no duty, no need to consider what the King needs of him, what the Queen wants from him, whether he should love her as he does or whether he should beg forgiveness (hers or the King's) with every breath. He's not meant to be doing anything, which is strange. He thinks on this, and for the first time feels that perhaps nothing is enough for now. He will think, and talk to those who'll talk with him, and he will drink, and see what happens.

He'll wait, and see what happens.